Addiction: the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.

Love: feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone)

Amazing how two words with vastly different definitions can have the same adverse effect on the spirit. I may be an addict, but I’m no longer foolhardy enough to be addicted to one man. No, this girl finds her comfort in thirst quenching liquid -- it dulls the pain caused by tainted love.

True love may exist, but not for me.

Reckless: without thinking or caring about the consequences of an action

The guy I used to be is a distant memory. I left him in the past, vowing never to be that man again. But never say never, right? This time, I became him out of need. Need for her. She only let me in assuming I enjoyed being on the outside, at arm’s length. But the more I fight the desire brewing in my veins, the harder she is to resist.

Wrong for each other, but carved from the same stone.

He is my rock.

She is my air.

But rocks shatter, and if you get high enough, air becomes unbreathable.

No matter how good it might seem, getting wrapped up in each other is pretty reckless...

Without looking up, she lifts her feet, allows me to sit, and then places them over my lap. I watch her scan the small screen, the lighted background shining against her dark brown irises. Every few seconds, she swipes to the left. “What are you doing?”

“Just messing around online.”

I lean in just in time to see her swipe again. “Are you on a dating site?” The contempt in my voice is hard to hide. Kat and I have spent every moment together, pretty much, since the day we met. The idea that she’ll eventually end up dating someone never crossed my mind.

“It’s just Tinder.”

“You really feel like you’re ready to start dating again?” Panic sits on my heart, stabbing at the meshy membrane with a dull fork. The thought of her even looking at another man makes me wants to go on a jealous rampage. She’s been living in my house for the past five weeks, crawling into my bed when she can’t fall asleep. Kat’s mine. Whether she knows it or not.

“Dating?” She pulls her hair down, and all of mine stand up. The faintest hint of juicy, ripened fruit wafts into my nostrils. Why couldn’t she smell like powder or flowers? Anything other than apples. Because of Kat, the mere thought of a Granny Smith stiffens my cock to an agonizing mass. If I don’t do something about this soon, I’m going to spend the rest of my life in analysis. “No. I’m just looking for a little release.”

I raise an eyebrow, watching her feverish swiping continue. “You’re looking for a booty call.”

Her gaze leaves her phone and locks on mine. “Not everyone’s a sex camel like you are, Chase. I can’t just store it in my lady humps and feed off it in tiny increments.”

“I’m not a sex camel.”

“You’re right. You’re more a like sexual terrorist. My coochie has been on the no-fly list since the day I met you, and right now, it just needs a little extra mileage. I’m not looking for anything more than that. So,” —she lifts her phone and waggles it back and forth— “Tinder.”

The corners of my mouth turn down. I focus on the television, pretending to watch the Kardashians fight when really, I’m imagining what it would be like to drag Kat into my room caveman-style and lock her away. I’m a selfish prick. I can’t have her, but I don’t want anyone else to have her either.

“Should I get my lips done?” From the corner of my eye, I see her pressing her fingertips against her puckered mouth as she watches the TV alongside me. “I want Khloe Kardashian lips.”

“Your lips are fine.”

“Word to the wise, Chase. Never tell a woman she’s fine. Fine is the kiss of death.”

I turn to look at her. Your lips are perfect. Two plump little pillows that would feel incredible sliding over my erection. “There’s not a thing about you I’d change.”

“You’re biased because you’re my friend.”

I just know what I like. “Scout’s honor.”

She rolls her eyes and looks back down at her phone. Swipe . . . swipe . . . swipe . . . all to the left. Then one to the right. My heart sinks.

“You right swiped.”

“Ew, are you watching me? Creeper alert!”

I hold out my hand. “Let me see.”

“No.”

“Come on! Show me!” I reach out to grab the phone, but she jerks her arm back.

Gobs of hysteric cackling erupt from her chest when I squeeze her knee with my fingers. She squirms and writhes, attempting to tear my grip from her leg. My free hand moves to her stomach. The phone falls to the floor and bounces across the carpet, long forgotten.

When I shift to my knee in an attempt to avoid a karate kick to the face, her arms shoot up and grasp my shirt, pulling me down against her. Frantic breath beats against my lips, her eyes wild with passion and fire.

Face to face, her body trembles. Raven strands of hair stick to her mouth. I run my fingers down her cheek and slip them behind her ear. Those lips. Those fucking amazing lips are so close to mine I can almost taste them.

So close . . .

The first taste is everything.

Jane Anthony is a romance author, fist pumping Jersey-girl, and hard rock enthusiast. She resides in the 'burbs of New Jersey with her husband and children. A lover of Halloween, vintage cars, & coffee, she’s also an encyclopedia of useless 80's knowledge and trivia. When not writing, she's an avid reader, concert goer, and party planner extraordinaire.

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